Page 113 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

KENDALL

The firelight is still burning in their eyes.

Shifters of all kinds, fae, dragons, wolves—standing together like it’s not the craziest damn thing the Veil’s ever seen. Like unity wasn’t the thing they all thought would get them killed.

“So what’s our plan?” one asks.

They’re still waiting on me. So I step forward, spine straight, voice steady.

“We don’t get another shot at this,” I tell them. “This alliance? This moment? It’s the only thing standing between survival and annihilation. We split into three fronts,” I continue, the plan already etched in my mind from the moment I felt Edmund’s blood pull me through the trees. “We secure the borders. We track the Brood’s last movements. And we prepare for a siege if it comes to that.”

Ridge, standing off to the left with a wrapped shoulder and a stubborn look, grunts, “And if it doesn’t come to us?”

I nod. “Then we take it to them.”

There are no cheers this time. Just silence. Agreement. Determination.

The kind of quiet that builds in your chest like thunder.

Later, when the fire’s burned down to embers and the crowd starts thinning out, Callum finds me by the supply tent.

His hand brushes my back, low and warm, like he already knows I’m unraveling a little behind my calm.

“You were good up there,” he says.

I don’t answer right away. My throat’s tight. My hands still shaking.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping in front of me. “You don’t have to be unshakable all the time.”

“I’m not,” I whisper. “I’m just faking it better now.”

He tilts my chin up. “Then fake it next to me. Not in front of everyone else.”

That gets a smile out of me. Small. Real.

He leans in, kisses my temple. “Rest. Even if it’s just an hour. I’ll hold the line.”

But rest doesn’t come.

Not tonight.

Because there’s one person I need to find before I sleep.

Adora’s near the training ring. Alone.

Her movements are sharp, too fast, too reckless for someone who’s supposedly just burning off steam. Her claws flash in the moonlight as she slices at a phantom target.

She doesn’t stop when I approach.

“You’re gonna wear yourself out,” I say, keeping my tone light.

She whips around, sweat on her brow, eyes glowing faintly—not the gold of a shift. Something darker. Purple. Faint. But there.

“I’m fine,” she says. Too quick. Too clipped.

“Thought we could train together. Like before.”

She shrugs. “Don’t need to be babysat.”

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